Authors: Jordana Frankel
“You sure?” I ask, biting my lip. “I’d understand if you wanted to take care of stuff and forget about the race. Really, I would.”
And I would, I guess. If I had to, I would.
He places a palm on my head and tousles my wild, wiry black curls. “I’m sure. You knew when to turn around and start from square one, and when to keep going. You’re ready. Just be careful of those guys,” he says, pointing in the direction of the Blues’ headquarters on the West Isle. “They may not like patrolling the Ward because of the Blight, but if they catch you—if you do anything stupid—no hesitation, they’ll jail you.”
I look up at him, confused. “But I heard sometimes they try to make a mole out of you if you’re useful?”
“And would you like to become a mole?”
I see what he’s getting at
. “Moles are sellouts,” I spit. “I’d never turn mole.”
“Then don’t do anything stupid, like stealing from freshwater stores, or nabbing treats from the Mad Ave vendors. I know what you orphans do.”
At that I grumble, checking the sky. “They won’t catch me,” I say, confident.
“Ha.” Then he looks to reconsider. “No, I’m sure they won’t. And if they did, they’d probably throw you back into the sea, such a pain-in-the-arse fish you’d make.”
I nod, hoping he’s right.
Three years later
1:00 A.M., SATURDAY
M
y breathing quickens and I realize I’m panting: prerace jitters.
Racing is your job now
, I remind myself, readying my game face in the bathroom mirror. It’s not a mask—I’ve worn it for too many years now. It’s a knife. A blade. All angles, sure to cut. I’ll smile. I’ll keep all my fear undercover.
You’re invincible, dammit
.
Who else—aside from Benny, back in his prime—has won every race they’ve ever entered?
No one.
Who else is immune? Who else could ask to be tested any day of the week and pass, always?
No one.
Too bad that last thought does me no good. I’d give my blood to Aven if I could, alone and sick at home. She’s not contagious anymore, so we don’t have to worry about her getting arrested. But the virus is no less deadly just ’cause she’s not contagious. In only two months, her tumor’s grown bigger than an egg, bulging out from the base of her skull.
Someone as good as she is shouldn’t be dying. Someone like me . . .
I
should be dying.
You’re a sellout
, my mind hisses.
At my wrist, my DI-issued cuffcomm trills: thirty minutes till flags go down. Time to check in.
The Blues don’t like it when their precious moles are late.
One quick glance to make sure the bathroom is empty, and I duck into a stall. I play around with my brass headset till it fits comfortably—a few purple and lime kinks of hair boing out the sides, but there’s no fixing that. I stopped trying for pretty long ago. Pretty won’t win races. Pretty don’t get respect.
I take a deep breath to still my nerves. I’ll never get used to this, I think, and flip open the comm. Crouched over the toilet seat, I punch in Chief Dunn’s number at headquarters, and look down into the murky water. To think—people used to fill toilet bowls with fresh. Pissing into a pot you can drink out of.
Unbelievable
.
The earbud crackles as I talk into the mouthpiece. “Come in, come in, Chief Dunn at HQ.”
Mole. That’s what I’ve become
. The very word makes me shake, even after all this time.
Three years ago, Aven and I planned our escape from Nale’s. Aven had just started to wheeze, and we could feel the tumor. She’d be unadoptable. And no one was going to pick me for their daughter, so it made sense. I botched it all, though, “borrowed” fresh from the orphanage stores—for the road—and Nale called the Blues on us.
I was the only one they caught—Aven got left behind. A great big heli swooped down, netted me, but never even saw her, dizzy and tired a hundred feet back. Flew me away like a stork with a baby bundle, all the way to the Division Interial’s headquarters for jailing.
I wasn’t bothered by the jailing, though—no, I was more bugged that they’d take my blood, figure out I was immune, and turn me into a froggy experiment. So I offered to work for them—whatever they needed.
I
asked
to be a mole. Still makes me want to spit.
As it turned out, they needed someone who knew the lay of the land and could scout the Ward’s dangerous quadrants for freshwater. A racer, for instance. And here I landed in their lap: an orphan. A ward of the state. Totally disposable. If I got sick, they could find someone else.
The line sputters, levels into a low buzz. “Quadrant?” a recording prompts, and I punch “10” into my cuffcomm. Like always, the recording reminds me to report to Chief Dunn immediately after the race. As if I’d suddenly forget.
The bathroom door creaks open.
Brack
, I curse to myself, flipping my cuffcomm shut.
Who’s in here?
I wait for the line to go dead, then hop out of the stall before anyone could’ve heard me. My mole status stays a secret. Even if I’m just looking for fresh, no one likes the Blues. I’d be hated by the other racers. More than I already am.
In walks the Dreaded Duo. Dragster girlfriends. Their platform shoes knock against the floor, and by way of the mirror’s reflection I see Tanzii first—fauxhawked, with one ear full of metal hoops, bars, and studs. Then comes Neela—all infinite legs and waterfall hair. All flaunt. No confetti-spiral do like I got. No dusky, freckled skin, or eyes that are half-open, half-closed all the time.
It kills me to say it, but the other racers have hot girlfriends.
I bet they’re even nice . . . to people they don’t hate so much, that is.
“That’s right . . . scamper off,” Tanzii, the taller of the two she-devils, hisses, running a hand through her tawny do.
And I do leave. But not because she told me to.
I step out onto the rooftop, ready.
Two feet out of the stairwell, a fist grabs for my shoulder and steers me to the rooftop perimeter.
“Not again,” I grumble, turning to see a muscly guy wearing the telltale yellow-and-black jacket. Don’t need to see his back to know what’s written there:
HBNC Patrol
. He’s one of the Blues’ goons, a Bouncer, here to randomly test people and then bring anyone who turns up contagious to a sickhouse.
Commission-based earnings, it’s called. Each infectious person they pick up earns them money. That way, the DI rarely risk getting sick, only hitting the Ward to make Transmission arrests.
I pull back the right sleeve of my red leather catsuit to show how many times I’ve already been tested. It don’t matter, they keep on dragging me. “Look,” I say to the guy, and wave my forearm in his face. A row of small, white X marks have been branded into the skin—proof of every VEL test I’ve ever been given. Of course, my Virus Exposure Level is, and always will be, nil.
The Bouncer ignores me as he searches my arm for the date marked under my last X.
“Not recent enough,” he growls, dropping it. Then he slips on a pair of white latex gloves and sticks me in the forearm with a tiny needle—a blood scanner—to see if I’ve got a certain amount of the virus that would mean I’m contagious.
Which I don’t.
I roll my eyes and start to tap my feet, impatient. This is a waste of my time, and even after a dozen VELs, getting the brands still hurts. Not to mention how I hate getting tested before a race—I actually use these arms. For pretty important stuff. Like, ya know—racing.
A moment later, the scanner beeps and the Bouncer takes back the device. “HBNC negative,” he informs me.
No kidding.
Flipping the scanner over, he presses a button, and we watch the tip—no bigger than my pinkie nail—glow until it’s red. I make a fist and try not to wince as he presses the blazing X and today’s date into the white of my arm.
It lasts less than a second, and then I exhale. One more welt, raw and pink, to add to the mix.
“Ren!” a voice calls from behind me. I turn around and spot Terrence to the far left.
My stomach bottoms out. He’s beneath the undercarriage of a brand-new racing mobile—an Omni, of all things. Makes me think I must’ve heard wrong, that it can’t really be Ter, but I know his close-shaved, brown head of hair too well.
His Omni’s a beaut—not to mention almost impossible to beat. But I can’t lose. The money I get from the Blues keeps Aven stocked in pain meds. My earnings from the races keep us fed and alive.
Take one away and life goes from hard to impossible.
“Ter!” I shout back, ignoring the cold trickling through the zipper of my catsuit as I maneuver my way to the other side of the roof. The whole thing lays at a slant, perfect for all our mobiles to gain momentum before the first jump, but a bit awkward to be running on in my beloved Hessian boots, tassel and all.
Soon as he waves, my jealousy over his new mobile fizzles away. It’s something about his eyes, I think, that does it. They’re a bright, West Isle Astroturf green that would be shocking even if his skin weren’t a bit darker than mine, and they’re always laughing. Not to mention his baby face—Ter’s still pudgy-cheeked from childhood. It doesn’t exactly inspire fear.
No, he’s not the big bad wolf of the races. More like a lamb, if you ask me. But with this kind of mobile . . . well, anyone’s a threat. I can’t hold it against him, though. He’s never won a race in his life, and if I had the money, I’d buy an Omni to fix that too.
“Holy sweaty socks from Hell! Terrence, how did you pull this off?” I wrap my arms around him in a bear hug. Good thing he’s one of the nice guys, or I’d never let on how green I am.
“Oh, this old thing?” His dark hand gives a casual slap to the orange exterior, and he walks around the cone-shaped body. Gently, he presses his fingers into each of the front wheels, testing their pressure. Then he moves to the single back wheel. “Well, my birthday’s coming up, and my dad wanted me racing safe. Since I was gonna do it anyway.”
I nod—that’s what I think I miss most about never having had parents. The gifts.
Since I like pushing buttons, “Why don’t you tell me about your new vegetable,” I ask.
“S’cuse?”
Terrence looks perplexed.
“Your carrot. She’s orange, ain’t she? I would’ve given her a paint job before the big day, but that’s just me. Plus the shape, it’s very . . . carrot-like.”
“Well then, she’ll be a swimming carrot,” he says with a smile, and I should’ve known better—Ter has no buttons. Always been hard to anger. “This is a grade A Omni6000 mobile. Retractable wheels, airtight interior. Even got a backseat.”
“Fully equipped?” I ask. It’s not for nothing that they’re called Omnis
—Omnimobiles
. All terrain. Land, sea, and air, though flight capability don’t come standard. Anyway, flight during a roofrace isn’t allowed, but I’m curious nonetheless.
He shakes his head. “Just land and sea,” he answers.
I look at his Omni again and the realization settles in: this race is no longer in the bag. My Rimbo’s a good mobile, no doubt, but I don’t quite see how it can match Ter’s carrot.
For one thing, mine’s no boat. A Rimbo—short for
rimbalzello
, the Italian word for that game where you skip stones—just skips across water, like a pebble. You add enough thrust from the propellers and you can keep it skipping. Stop the thrust, the mobile sinks hard.
Terrence’s is airtight; it can move underwater. And because it’s airtight, without momentum it just bobs to the surface like an apple. Nice and safe.
If I get stuck on a canal or a gutter, it’s a big, fat Game Over—I can’t let that happen.
I swallow my envy. Ter made it out of Nale’s home alive, and with a rich new dad to boot. Rich by Ward standards, at least. Ter doesn’t need this money like I do. Losing is not an option for me. Ter’s shiny new metal is nothing.
Metal can’t think.
Metal can’t gauge how fast you need to drive if you want to fly.
I’m the better racer. That’s what matters.
Turning away, “I’ve got to get mine ready,” I tell him quietly, and stalk off, headed in Benny’s direction. I can just barely make him out on the other side of the roof.
“Don’t be a sore loser!” I hear Ter call from behind me. But I haven’t lost. Not yet.
As I storm across the roof, I can feel the remaining two racers’ eyes glued to me from under the brims of their derbies.
Jones and Kent. Both descendants of Manhattanites who wouldn’t leave when the Wash Out struck—didn’t want to stray too far from their skyscraping palaces. These guys come from old money. Money so old it ain’t even around anymore, but they like to play make-believe. Act rich, get treated rich. Those are the Derbies for you. Still thinkin’ they own the place.
Kent moves toward me, slow, waltzlike, whiter than a ghost. Lifts his derby to tuck a stray black hair behind his ear, then pins me with his eyes. He steps closer, stopping not two feet away. Faces me. Towers over, his body long and thin. Uses height to intimidate.
Jones follows suit. He is Kent’s pastier-looking shadow, after all. Wears his greasy blond hair just the same way and tips his hat to the exact same angle. Of course, Kent wears it better; Jones is hardly taller than I am.
They circle me, vultures.
“I’m feeling lucky tonight,” Kent says. The corners of his lips curl. He draws a line with his eyes straight up and down my body. He’s too close. I don’t like his words. Don’t like their double meaning. If I back away, he’ll see my fear.
Times like this, I wish I were wearing something less flashy. Less red. Something maybe not leather.
This is a show
, I remind myself.
And you’re the main attraction
. Besides, leather does wonders for girls who are small up top, and I don’t need any help making my backside look good. Plus, the bigger the audience, the bigger the winnings.
I move closer to him and look up, meeting his gaze, though my eyes are level with his chest. “Too bad you need skills, not luck.”